


To Breathe Again

by rouven_stat



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Eskel Has Self-Esteem Issues (The Witcher), Frostbite, Geralt has a Brain Cell (but only one), Humans are the Real Monsters, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Insecure Lambert (Witcher), Multi, Nightmares, Parent Vesemir (The Witcher), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Vesemir (The Witcher), Serious Injuries, Soft Witchers (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:40:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29265897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rouven_stat/pseuds/rouven_stat
Summary: Humans have the power to make the year on the path a horror movie for one scarred witcher. And when he manages to escape their sadism, he has to come to terms with longterm injuries, and more importantly: his own mind.And his brothers have to come to terms with being unable to turn back time and fix it.Honestly, this is just an excuse to make Eskel suffer. And therefore gifted to the account on here that inspired me to let Eskel become the victim of extensive suffering.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Vesemir (The Witcher), Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 30





	1. The Road Goes On...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CreativWit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativWit/gifts).



> Should I be doing calculus, linear algebra and statistics courses right now? Yes. Am I a pro at procrastination? Yes.

Snow is crunching underneath of heavy boots, sounds blending into the howling of the wind and heavy panting. A bear of a man fights his way through the cold storm, shoulders hunched over and big arms wrapped around his abdomen to preserve some body warmth. His steps are slow, dragging his right leg behind, and he is alone. From time to time, he still reaches out to his side, reaching for his loyal companion, but coming up with nothing but freezing wind. A quick glance down to his belt tells him that his pouch for potions is empty, and all he can come up with it a handful of nuts as provision. For someone of his size, that is nothing – he might as well starve.

The painful cramping of his stomach tells him that he is closer to starvation than he had hoped. Not a surprise, really. He has been avoiding any towns and villages for about a month now, and because of the bruises covering his body and not healing for so long – how could they without him giving them time or potions to heal – he has been too slow to hunt anything but rabbits. And those rabbits don't live up this high the mountains, so it has been a meagre few weeks.

But he also knows that he is less than a day's walk away from the keep where he could find everything he needs: potions, a warm fire, and food. But he is not sure of his welcome. After all, every time he returned the last years, he has brought supplies with him, and some coin, and now he is a charity case. He doesn't have any alternative to stay, though, so he needs to try. If they keep the gates closed, he knows that he won't survive the winter, but if he doesn't try to get there, he is already dead.

And to support his orientation, he finally reaches the small cave where he rests every year when he returns. From this point, if he had his stallion with him, it is a seven hour ride to the keep – on foot it will normally take about twelve hours. Like this, injured and with no energy left, it will take him longer, but it is the last spot where he can set up camp hidden from the storm raging on.

He has to light a fire, and is relieved to find a small stash of firewood left behind from the witchers before him. All he has to do is light it up. His right hand forms a familiar sign and he directs the blast of Igni to the wood– and scrambles back just in time when it explodes in his face.

When he looks down at his hands, he can see that his right hand is trembling badly, both of his hands are. It's no surprise he can't control his signs like this. What does come as a surprise, however, is the state of his fingers. Two fingers on his left hand are black, and when he tries to move them, he finds that he has no control over them anymore. The rest of his left and parts of his right hand are covered in dark blisters, and will soon turn the same shade of black if he doesn't get them treated. But treated with what? He knows this injury, has seen it before in humans, and he knows that the black fingers are lost. What he doesn't know is how fast he can get to the keep, and how much he can save of his hands.

And right now, there is not much he can do, anyway. He is out of potions to heal himself, doubts that they would do much good at the moment with the dead tissue anyway, and too weak to risk a journey through the night to arrive at the keep sooner.

Out of options to do much else, the bear curls up close to the fire that he hopes will keep burning through the entire night. He doesn't have a blanket with him, carries nothing on him but his clothes and the small pouch of collected food, so he is left exposed to the cold on his back, pulling his jacket as close as possible, tucking his numb hands under his armpits, and closes his eyes. He hopes that he will wake up the next morning, but if the cold decides to declare him her victim – then he hopes it will come now when he is passed out.

_It is dark, cold, and wet in the cellar. He can hear people moving around on the floor above him. He can hear a man crying in the cell next to him – voice rough after the screams that have carried through the walls hours over hours. It is no secret what has happened over there, even without the sadistic running commentary from the guards. They love torture, they love to see the pain. And the prisoner has experienced this time and time again himself. He still waits for any feeling to return to his bloodied arms and legs, can feel the drying blood sticking to his stomach and back. Without access to food – at least not in his usual amount – and barely any water to drink, his wounds take ages closing up again. He thinks they might heal slower than human bodies now that he is stripped of his power and strength. It is a pathetic excuse for a witcher right now, semi-conscious and fighting to make it through the night._

_Is it night? He doesn't know anymore. He suspects that it is, there are less guards outside than usual which indicates that humans are sleeping now, but maybe they are just enjoying messing with him and the other prisoners. He knows why they are keeping him here, but he still doesn't understand. That they dislike witchers for this, yes, but why lock him up? He huffs out a snort at that. If they only are locking him up, he doesn't have a problem, but he has heard the rumours about the pyre they are building. "Big enough to burn all monsters," they have said to the guards. And that is what he is, right? A monster. Born to be burned._

A good fifteen miles ahead from his camp, Kaer Morhen towers on the mountain. The keep looks left behind, and cold, but the trained eye spots the candlelight coming from the small kitchen windows. Inside the keep, two witchers are seated at the table, mugs of ale in front of them that they keep fidgeting with. They are waiting for their brother to return from the path, he has promised to come back this winter, but with every inch of snow covering the path, their hopes sink that he will arrive.

"It's not like him to be late," the younger witcher complains quietly, not lifting his eyes from the ale sloshing around as he spins the mug.

"Probably took another contract," the most famous inhabitant of the keep – the White Wolf as they call him – rationalises. If he tries to comfort his younger brother or himself, he can't really tell. They are all tense, have been this past week. A few days late, everybody could agree that while uncommon is nothing to worry about, these things happen, but now, over two weeks after Eskel usually arrives... Something is not right.

"Yeah, and got killed," comes the dull response. The White Wolf flinches at the thought but before he can say anything, a third witcher – much older than the two in the kitchen – enters the room.

"Not a word of that, Lambert!" he reprimands, as he takes a seat opposite the two brooding witchers that he has helped train decades ago. Much softer he adds: "He's coming."

"How do you know that?" Lambert challenges, but both older witchers can hear the pain and worry seeping into his voice. He will die before he admits this, but everybody who knows him can tell how desperate he is to see his older brother again.

"Saw him light a campfire. He's at the caves now, should arrive tomorrow," the oldest explains calmly, not missing the sheer relief passing both of his pups' faces. For two people so adamant about not showing emotions, they can be surprisingly easy to read.

"Did he look injured? Why is he late?" Lambert hesitates a moment, before trying to show nonchalance by adding: "He better bring alcohol with him or I'll make him pay."

They all know that Lambert will fuss over Eskel, regardless in what state he arrives, and no matter if he brings his favourite alcohol or none at all. But they let him pretend for a moment, don't want to argue now.

"I didn't see him – just the fire. If you two want to make yourselves useful tomorrow, you could meet him halfway, help him with his stock if he has some with him." The old witcher doesn't add _if you're so worried you will be useless for physical labour tomorrow until your brother is here anyway_.

"Sure, take care the old man doesn't drink everything before he arrives," Lambert cackles, and almost jumps out of his seat to rush out of the kitchen. The White Wolf hums his agreement, and gets to his feet as well, although slower.

"And, Geralt?", the oldest wolf adds. Geralt turns his head to show he is listening, but doesn't face his former mentor fully. "Make sure Lambert doesn't rush out of here in the dark. I don't want to go looking for the three of you tomorrow."

Geralt hums in agreement, and then he is out of the door, too.

_"I want this beast on the pyre tomorrow," the leader of the guards states when he looks the bear over, not bothering to conceal his disgust at the image in front of him and the sour smell in the room. "He will die within two days anyway."_

_He wants to disagree, to point out that he is not as easy to kill, but he has to resign to the truth. As of right now, he can barely hold himself upright, only manages to stay awake by pressing his injured foot against the rough stone. He is as good as dead, and apparently the man in front of him is very aware of that fact. Now he just hopes that he will die before being put in the pyre. There are many deaths that a witcher can choose from, few of them are peaceful, but none are more horrifying than being burned alive._

_Gloved hands roughly push his head to the side to inspect the latest head injuries he has received, before pushing him back hard enough that he lands flat on his back on the floor. "Any last words, monster?"_

_"I'm sorry."_

Geralt finds Lambert in the stable, already stuffing at least two complete medical kits into his saddle bags. When Geralt enters, the younger witcher turns his head, eyes narrow. "Just in case," he defends quickly. Geralt shrugs and steps closer, grabbing his own saddlebags from the wall and looking them over.

"I get it. He could be hurt. Better safe than sorry."

For a moment, Lambert looks about ready to disagree, but then his shoulders relax and he nods – taking more time to finish packing. When he moves towards the stables, however, Geralt speaks up again: "No use going now, trail's too dangerous. Let's leave at dawn."

"Could be there faster."

"And get ourselves killed. No use. Come with me."

He reaches out but hesitates before grabbing Lambert's arm, knowing very well that his younger brother sometimes gets aggravated by being pulled physically. This time, Lambert scowls at him for a moment, but doesn't step back, and when Geralt takes a hold of his arm to lead him out, he follows obediently.

_The first thing when he opens his eyes again is that there is someone leaning over him, and that someone is not a guard. Too slim, and bright blue eyes watching him with interest instead of pure disgust. Still, he scrambles back a little to get some distance between the mysterious man – or boy, really – in front of him._

_"They did you dirty, didn't they, witcher?"_

_His eyes widen in surprise of being adressed as something different than 'monster', 'freak', 'mutant' or 'beast' for the first time in what must have been weeks. And the words are spoken softly, devoid of any hatred or anger._

_"Ma always told me to be nice to you witchers, you keep the lands safe. The people here have forgotten that – one of your kind did them dirty a while back – but I haven't. You won't kill me if I help you out of here, right?"_

_"Never."_

_A low hum, then the boy is reaching out, offering his hands to leverage the heavy witcher from the ground. With a grunt of pain, he let's himself be pulled up, more than a little confused by the strength the boy shows._

_"What will you do if you get out? Kill them? I wouldn't blame you, you know..."_

_"No. Need to leave. I'm late."_

_"Meeting other witchers, huh? Probably safest option for you right now. You don't look fit to take on anyone right now."_

_He nods slowly, still trying to process what this_ **_kid_ ** _is doing here and why he helps him. Is he the one to bring him out to the pyre? One last joke for the village to laugh at?_

_"Your head is about to explode, don't think that much. I have no use for you, just don't like those imprisoned who could help save someone's life if set free. I'll bring you to the crossroad and then go back home."_

_This time, the bear nods slowly, allowing his eyes to roam in the dark. His bags are on a small table, obviously emptied out, shards of glass betraying what has happened with his potions. The door to the next cell is open, and he nearly gags at the smell of rotten corpses coming from it. No doubts left what happened to that prisoner._

_"You good to stand by yourself for a moment?" the boy asks when they reach the door and the bear grabs his jacket from the floor. He nods and the boy disappears for a moment before coming back with a sly smile and offering his arm to hold onto._

_"Had to return the keys before they figure out I helped you."_

_That is the first thing this boy has said that make sense, and the bear finds himself blindly following him through the narrow streets. This time at night, the town is empty, and they reach the outside without trouble. Once they leave the houses behind, he finds the courage and the strength to ask the most important question: "Who are you?"_

_"Nobody but a humble bard who has a helper-syndrome, I'm afraid." And at that, it clicks in the bear's mind at that. Stories after stories his brother has told over the past decade, of the brazen bard who helps witchers for the adventure, and who has no healthy self-preserving instincts. This must be Geralt's bard, then._

_"Thank you. I'll tell Geralt what you've done."_

_A smile spreads on the young face._

_"Ah, you know the White Wolf. Is he who you are to meet?"_

_When he nods, the boy's smile widens. "The stories I know about him, unbelievable. Send him my best regards. And stay safe," he adds, becoming serious towards the end as they reach the crossroad. "If you are looking to go up North, this is the road to take. Will keep you away from settlements for a good while, allow you to recharge," he explains, pointing in a direction leading into deep woods. Perfect to hide. The bear nods with a tight smile and thanks the bard again, before turning his back to the town and walking – well, limping – into the unknown._

Geralt leads Lambert with him to his bedroom, ignoring the raised eyebrows directed at him for the last metres down the hall when the younger has realised their destination.

"Not gonna sleep. Meditate."

He waits until Lambert nods to open the door, directing them both to sit down in front of the fireplace he lights up. The youngest wolf seems hesitant to close his eyes, but staring into the pattern of the flames, his eyelids grow tired no matter how hard he fights it. A quick glance to his side tells him that Geralt is still watching him, no doubt keeping himself alert until Lambert settles. It takes him more strength than he has expected at this point, brain dazed from the beginnings of meditation pulling on his thoughts, but he manages to grunt: "First light of dawn we leave."

"First light of dawn."

Fifteen miles away from the keep, the broad muscled frame has curled himself into a tiny ball close to the fire, invisible to the untrained eye. He is asleep, passed out a more accurate description, but his muscles are still tense, brows ceased in a deep frown. In between ragged breaths, his muscles spasm in tight movements, before automatically being attracted back to the heat of the fire that is casting soft shadows to the cave walls. Outside, the wind is still howling, snow falling in a steady pace and piling onto the road. There is nobody around, no human soul, no animal, not even a monster daring to step out into the harsh weather that makes a difficult trail impassable for the most advanced and courageous of climbers. To survive the storm is a battle. To walk another five miles on this path is by now equivalent to charging into an army of soldiers, naked and without weapon. Deadly.

And while three witchers have closed their eyes to this state, hoping that the storm will settle in a few hours, one old soul is standing tall in a tower, watching the clouds rolling across the storm, letting the cold wind beat his face, and praying to a deity he hasn't adressed in centuries to bring his last son back to him safely. And he vows not to get down until this happens – if his son doesn't make it back home, then he will not make it through another winter.


	2. Do You See Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's called procrastination. I should probably include the formulas in this story to study them...

When the bear stirs, his muscles are stiff from sleeping on the hard stone, and he is shivering in the cold. The fire from last night is still smouldering, he can smell it without opening his eyes, but there is no heat radiating off it. He wants to see what is left of it, what the state of his campsite is, really, but his eyelids are too heavy. He is too heavy.

_The forest around him begins to call out for him. Voices of monsters, maybe, or the wind moving the leaves. Maybe it's both. But for once in his life, he doesn't want to check it out, doesn't go investigate. Like a good human traveler, he stays determined on the road, eyes not straying into the shadows, as his feet keep moving forward out of habit. He can feel that someone – or something – is watching him, and simply hopes that it is a wolf who decides he is too much trouble to hunt down. Or that his smell of urine and rotten caves is enough to deter any animals. He hears a stream not far away, just hidden from sight but the water splashing against the stone repetitively. Usually, he would have dived right in to wash the stench and the blood off, to clean his clothes, and to scrub the fingerprints off his skin. But he is already easy prey – even if he doesn't look like it – and undressing for a bath will make him an even easier target. That's a risk that he must avoid at any cost. So, the journey continues with sticky, smelly clothes, and the phantom touches of the guards left on his body._

It takes at least another hour – it's hard to tell how much time is passing being hidden from the weather in the cave – before the bear pries his eyelids apart. Grunting against the searing pain exploding behind his temples, he turns his head to take in his situation. Like he has suspected, the fire is barely giving off a red glow, nothing substantial to it anymore. The light streaming into the entrance tells him that it must be late morning already, and dread settles heavy in his stomach. He is running out of daylight to make the long travel uphill, and another quick glance towards his blackened hand confirms his belief that if he doesn't arrive at the keep this day, he will lose more than just two fingers. The blisters on his right hand have turned darker overnight, and a witcher without his dominant hand – well, that's just useless, isn't it? And if there is one thing that he remembers from his upbringing, it's that his mentor who remains the guard of the keep doesn't keep around useless things.

The dread does not make it easier to move the sore muscles, to stand up and take a shot at the difficult travel. But the bear is known to his brothers for being the most rational of the remaining students, and with a discipline that especially his youngest brother is severely lacking, he forces himself to uncurl and get to his knees. The pain shooting up his spine makes him hesitate in this position. After a few short, harsh puffs, he forces his uncooperative muscles to move once more, until he finally staggers to his feet. A few months ago, he had effortlessly rolled to his feet after waking up, as graceful as possible for someone of his built, but now, he moves like an old human – little time away from dying of their bodies' weakness. He grimaces at his own comparison but it fits, doesn't it? He is like an old man already, slowed down and weak. And what have they been told all these years? "A witcher gets a day off when he is old and slow – and dies." He sure is slow right now. Slow and powerless.

He is about to throw an Aard at the fireplace, to extinguish it like he usually would, but then he remembers last night. The fire exploding in his face, the loss of control. Although nobody has been around to witness that humiliation, he's unwilling to risk it again. Especially when a glance back down at his hands tells him that the trembling hasn't stopped, if anything it has increased. Better be safe than sorry, right? So instead of casually extinguishing the remainders of his camp like he is used to, he forces himself to stomp out the last sparks that could reignite, like they did before their trials. At least it warms up his feet for a moment before he moves to leave the cave and face the snow that the storm brought on. When he looks ahead, he can see his destination peeking out in between the trees. The skies are clear, the road white but looking more passable than the bear has feared. To cross the most dangerous parts of the killer is still dangerous, the risks too high to be estimated if he wants to keep a calm mind, but he can make it until then. If he is lucky, the others will spot him from the towers and ride out to fetch him. If they don't help him, then he may be better off dying before he is putting them to work because of it. The killer takes care of its victims, it always has.

"We should have passed him by now," Lambert growls, pulling his stallion to a halt when they reach the splintered oak tree that has been destroyed a long time ago in a storm. It marks two-thirds to the first campsite, always a sign of relief when they make it back out in the spring, that they are about to rest after the killer. But right now, that relief is missing entirely as the two brothers exchange worried glances. Eskel should have met them at least three miles behind them, even more if they consider that they have taken their time riding down the killer – not wanting to be too daring where so many of their former brothers have died. Besides, while Geralt's mare is the most loyal out of all of them, but Eskel's stallion is always the fastest up the mountain. So where is he?

"Check off-road," Geralt grumbles finally, eyes roaming the deep woods for any sign of struggle. While unlikely to get distracted this close to the keep, an attack by wargs or different monsters after the storm looking for a last meal before their hibernation. It is not unheard of for witchers to go on an unpaid last hunt, if only to avoid trouble on the hardest parts of the Killer. It's better to get the fights won before that.

"Stupid fucker going after monsters here," Lambert grumbles, but shifts his weight to get off his horse to follow Geralt's suggestion. Before he can swing his leg over the back of the unnamed stallion, however, he catches a glimpse of a familiar red jacket down the track. Judging by Geralt's wide eyes, he has noticed, too. Settling back into the saddle, Lambert leans forward to get a better look.

And what a sight it is when their brother rounds the corner a good 500 feet in front of them. They don't need to be close to notice the limp, the way the bigger witcher has folded in on himself to appear impossibly small, and most surprisingly, the lack of... Anything really. No Scorpion, no bags, nothing but the clothes on his body.

After exchanging a quick glance to confirm they are both seeing the same image in front of them, the two witchers command their horses into full speed as they rush down the remaining path until they can finally reach him, shouting to get his attention the whole way.

_As the long journey trudges on, his already strained mind begins to fall apart. Whispers in the forest turn into calls, children screaming for help, for a witcher to help them. The first time, he ignores all pain and danger as he rushes into the woods, until the screaming abruptly stops, and he comes face to face with- nothing. Absolutely nothing. He finds himself standing in an empty clearing, head whipping around to find the voices. That is when he realised the familiarity of the voices. Names of boys who have trained with him until the trials claimed their lives pop up, and he cringes at his own stupidity. How could he not have realised? He is lucky that this time, his mind is playing tricks on him, not a monster. If he keeps this up, he will never have to worry about snow making roads impassable, he will not make it out of this forest._

_Pulling the jacket closer as if it would do much to protect him with all of the tears in the fabric, he returns back to the road. The next time the voices can be heard, he takes a deep breath and marches on. His heart tries to pull him towards the sounds, but he whispers quietly: "Voltehre is dead. Gweld is dead. Gardis is dead. Aubry is dead. They do not scream my name. They do not need my help."_

_He wishes he could believe his own words. His fingers itch for his swords, but their familiar weight is missing, his back unprotected to dangers sneaking up on him. He wants to look out for danger, to save the voices, but he knows that it's in his head. All nothing more than a dream, a nightmare._

_It takes two more days until the voices turn into shapes. First fleeting images that fade when he looks closer, then clear images of people he knows. From farm boys that he has helped in the past, those he has been too late to save, to the last people he considers his family. And again, his mind has him fooled. He spots the familiar dark hair, hurries his steps in hopes of meeting his brother on the path. He should know that it's impossible, that the youngest wolf will already be much further along the road like he should be, too. But as soon as he sees him, his mind shuts off, and he hurries up for a good hundred feet until he realises that his brother doesn't look back. He should be able to hear him, and for a moment he fears that he is a ghost, that he has never made it out of that cellar. But then the image in front of him flickers. It fucking flickers, and then his brother has disappeared. Gone. And he is left behind on the path, alone and reaching out for someone who isn't there. He must look pathetic like this, but a glance around tells him that nobody is around. He isn't sure whether to be relieved or terrified at the thought._

"ESKEL!"

The shouts alert him back to his surroundings, and he stares up the path where two horses are nearing him in a full gallop. They are too fast to make out their faces, but there aren't many options who to encounter here. But surely it can't be.

"Eskel, what the fuck are you doing?" his youngest brother Lambert greets him as soon as they reach him, pulling his horse to a stop before jumping off its back, immediately reaching for the injured witcher. "What the fuck happened?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before pushing Eskel's head left and right, looking with a deepening frown at all the bruises lingering on his skin. The touches are new, but he doesn't know if it's nothing more but an excessive mind trick. But he doesn't care anymore. Then Geralt steps up to them as well, potion pouch ready to go in his hand.

To Lambert's and Geralt's surprise, Eskel doesn't say a word while they prod him and turn him around, shivering from time to time when the wind brushes them. Every muscle being moved protests, his skin burning from the cold, but the burning hot fingers inspecting him are drowning out everything at the moment. That is, until they pull back. Eskel hears a gasp coming from one of his brother's, he can't tell who, and groans at the loss of contact that brings with it a loss of much needed heat. But then, hot hands pick up his frozen ones, taking a close look at his dead fingers while a rough thumb begins rubbing across the back of his hand soothingly. He forces himself to look up to see Lambert's wide eyes staring back at him, not letting go of his hands as his lips keep moving. Eskel doesn't know what he is asked, doesn't know how to respond to the soundless words hanging in the air. When Geralt holds out an opened bottle of Swallow, however, Eskel shakes his head.

"Won't help. Wasted," he mumbles quietly, and while the frown on Lambert's face deepends even further, the potion is closed again and stored away. Eskel knows that right now, the potion can't do anything for his injuries since it will be concentrated on two fingers that will never be healthy again. Better to wait until the blackness is cut off before allowing the other injuries to heal, if they still are willing to give him a potion after this. He doesn't know yet if they will bring him back home like this, but now he hopes that they will not leave him here like this.

His hopes blossom when Lambert stops talking, pulling off his gloves before carefully putting them on Eskel with a forced smile. Before Eskel can respond, can thank him, he feels two more hands wrapping something around his shoulders. A heavy cloak settles around him as Geralt fastens it for him in the front, holding eye contact with Lambert during a silent conversation. Eskel tries to follow it, but he is warm, and surrounded by the smell of his brothers, and safe. He is not alone anymore, at least not right now. And with the exhaustion already deep in his bones since this morning, he begins to lose the battle for consciousness rapidly. He sways a little bit on his feet, and four hands reach out quickly to steady him, Lambert gripping his arms tightly and Geralt steadying him on his hip and back.

"Roach," Geralt grunts, and Eskel allows himself to be pulled towards the mare waiting for her rider patiently. It's embarrassing how much he stumbles around on the short distance, but not a single hand has left him, and he is prevented from falling again and again until he can hold onto the saddle to keep himself upright.

With more help than he likes to admit – Geralt holding him upright while Lambert guides his foot into the stirrup and pushes him upwards so that his injured brother only has to lift his other leg over the mare's back –, Eskel finally settles onto the saddle. Lambert keeps a grounding touch on his leg while Geralt swings up behind his injured brother. The White Wolf wraps two strong arms around Eskel's waist, guiding him to lean backwards. Eskel struggles against it a little bit, forcing himself to sit upright and keep as much weight off his brother is possible. He can see Lambert's exasperated eye roll at the difficult behaviour, but without a comment the youngest mounts his own horse and guides it up next to Roach.

Geralt wastes no more time to get Roach into a steady trot. He itches to hurry up to the keep, he doesn't like the haunted look in his brother's face, nor the blood he can smell from underneath the jacket – with the snow this high and Eskel already half-frozen, they can hardly undress him outside. He knows that he can't risk this now. If Roach, and Lambert's mount, are hurried across the Killer, it will likely end badly for all of them. Especially right now, with the added weight of a bulky witcher, although Geralt swears that Eskel has been at least fifty pounds heavier the last time he has seen him. Trying not to think about it too hard, he turns his head to whisper a quiet promise in his brother's ear: "You're coming home, now."

Lambert watches Eskel carefully, and opens his mouth to interrogate him further about his lack of a stallion, his lateness, and the injuries, but before a word leaves his mouth Eskel suddenly slumps over, and Geralt's quick reflexes are the only reason that he doesn't fall off the horse. And luckily, Roach is used to movement during a ride, undisturbed by the commotion while Geralt manoeuvres Eskel until he is leaning against his chest, head rolling from side to side with the movements of the mare. Immediately alert, Lambert reaches out towards them, tense as a bow string, but Geralt shakes his head. "Got him." Securing Eskel with a stronger grip around his waist, Geralt turns his eyes to the road ahead, mindful to cushion harsher blows from the stony road.

Behind them, Lambert stares as he trails behind his older brothers, eyes jumping around nervously, looking for something, anything, to distract from the worrisome scene unfolding in front of him. "Geralt?"

The other witcher turns his head, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you- Will he- What-" He trails off, breaking eye contact as he tries to form the questions in his head. He doesn't really know what he's asking for. Some explanation maybe, that he knows Geralt can't give him. The knowledge that Eskel will be okay, what Geralt doesn't know and can't promise him. To be honest, he doesn't want anything from Geralt at all, he wants Eskel to turn around and answer him, to explain what happened and who has done this to him – so that he can hurry his stallion down the mountain and go on a bloody murder spree.

But Geralt fixes him with his eyes, expression tight. "I know. Me too."


	3. Hold Your Middle Finger Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive and ready with a new chapter – thank you for your patience with me.

From his position up high on the tower, the oldest wolf has watched two of his sons ride out at the first light of dawn. He has seen the slow pace that his oldest son has shown, knowing that something is off. Not only because his son has been walking, but every step has seemed to be a battle with himself, slow and painful. He watches as the sons on horses slow down, can see how close they are to their brother, but he knows they are hesitant. He wills them not to turn around and ride back without the last witcher missing from the keep.

They don't. As soon as they spot the oldest rounding the corner their horses race towards him, and the guarding wolf watches as they move around their brother who doesn't move. Supported by two witchers, he staggers over to the horse, and fear settles in the oldest wolf's stomach when he sees his wolf so helpless on the road. He tears his eyes away from the scene and climbs down the tower, knowing that his sons will bring the third back safe now, and goes to prepare an emergency infirmary in the kitchen with some clean linen covering the table, and multiple medical supplies lined up neatly ready to grab, a multitude of potions alongside them.

He contemplates calling Triss over, he knows that his oldest pup will most likely need more healing than a potion and a bandage, but before he can decide to do so, he sees Geralt and Lambert riding up to the keep as fast as possible on the unsteady road, Eskel slumped over in front of the White Wolf. He hurries out in the courtyard to greet them instead.

The gates open just in time that the two riding witchers don't have to slow down until reaching the middle of the courtyard, Lambert jumping off his mount before coming to a stop. "He's in bad shape, Vesemir," the youngest forces out, hand already steadying Eskel at the waist but hesitant to jostle him in pulling him down. With a tense nod, Vesemir steps up to him, and helps get Eskel off the horse before Geralt follows quickly.

"Geralt, help me. Lambert, horses."

Two nods, although Lambert is reluctant to give up his hold on his brother when Geralt steps up to him. As soon as he is sure that Vesemir and Geralt have Eskel safely between them, arms pulled over their shoulder while their free arms are wrapped around his back, Lambert steps back and takes the reigns of both horses, leading them to the stable. The other two witchers slowly make their way into the kitchen, wincing at Eskel's feet dragging along the stone floor. It's not like they can save the boots anyway, and at least as long as Eskel is passed out, he will not actively fight them.

With a huff, Geralt heaves Eskel onto the prepared table, careful to mind the head when he rests it on a towel. Vesemir wastes no time grabbing a pair of scissors and cutting up the pant legs. Geralt looks at him for a moment, hesitating before taking a knife and slicing through the red jacket. He apologises in his head, promises to fix it later, then removes the wet fabric clinging to Eskel's skin. Without the clothes covering most of his skin, Vesemir can get a closer look at his body – or what is left of it.

The pale skin has turned red from irritation and the cold almost completely, broken with dark purple and yellowish bruises as well as healing wounds. The cuts that break the skin aren't deep, but they have been healing badly – even for human standards. However, nothing seems to be infected on first glance, not beyond a subtle irritation of the edges of a wound. Deciding that nothing else is a pressing matter, Vesemir turns his full attention to the two hands resting on Eskel's stomach. They are without question the most troublesome picture in front of him. Dark blisters covering three quarters of his right hand, and all of his left hand. Two fingers on his left are completely black, and the fingertip of his left index finger has suffered as well. Vesemir has been around all kinds of injuries long enough to know that he can't save the fingers, and most likely the fingertip will have to be amputated, too. It will be too risky to let it become an added risk for infection by leaving it like this, even if there is a small chance that it could recover. Right now, they all know that Eskel is unlikely to survive a severe infection of the wounds. This is risk-minimisation, no longer a question of long-term effects but a short-term survival rate alone.

Additionally to the frostbite and the various bruises, Geralt notices the sunken in stomach and the ribs peeking out. It goes beyond what is considered normal after a bad year on the path, when food becomes an unreliable resource. This is starvation. With injuries like these, it's no surprise that hunting must have been rare, and that Eskel has been surviving off of collected plants and berries alone. For someone of his size, on the path, that isn't sustainable.

Running a warm hand over Eskel's arm soothingly – more to ground himself than to comfort the unconscious man – Vesemir turns to Geralt with a grimace. "Those fingers need to be removed. No saving them."

Geralt nods, barely glancing up from the exposed skin in front of him. He has known that it must look bad when they found Eskel, but the true extent of the damage goes beyond his imagination.

"When?"

"We wait for Lambert, then I start. Let's hope he stays unconscious, if not, I will need you both to keep him down."

Another nod, without hesitation. Vesemir turns away from the make-shift operation table to gather the instruments he needs, a good saw to get through the bone, sewing materials, bandages, and white gull to disinfect. Just when he puts the last bottle down on the floor next to table, and casts an Igni to disinfect the saw, Lambert enters the room. He keeps his steps light, stretching his neck to see if Eskel has woken up. They pretend not to notice the sour smell when he realises that his older brother is still unconscious, laid out like a corpse on the table.

"Is he..."

"No. We need to amputate his fingers now, though, so hold him down in case he wakes up," Vesemir responds before he can voice his question. Immediately, Lambert steps up to Eskel's legs, wrapping two strong hands around his calves and nodding at the others in confirmation. Geralt takes up a position above Eskel's head, hands pressing down onto broad shoulders as he keeps his eyes deliberately away from where Vesemir lays the left hand onto the table.

"Let's hope he stays down." And with that, Vesemir lifts the saw.

_With a grating sound the door is pushed open and three soldiers storm inside the small cell. The witcher is laying on his back, barely aware of the sudden appearance of men surrounding him. His fingers have curled tightly around his tunic after they had stripped him of his sacred jacket. He feels naked, and not in the way that he usually doesn't mind much. All wolf witchers have little shame when it comes to nudity after all. But being in a room with strangers wearing nothing but linen that is already soaked in blood? That's a different story entirely, and one that he hopes to never repeat in his life. If he ever makes it out to experience anything else in life, that is._

_"The alderman has spoken – the beast will die."_

_The beast. That's all he is to them, no matter how many monsters he kills, how many children he returns safely to their homes. The people look at his face, look at his eyes, and decide that he is worse than the monsters in their nightmares. And if he is honest, by now he agrees with them sometimes. He tries his best to be a good man, but it never works out, does it? There is always the next fight where he punches a drunk man too hard, where he hurts a human being over a petty fight. It's not very mundane. He knows his strength, no matter how little is left of it right now, and he should know better than to use his hand against humans._

_So many times he has gotten away after these fights, left the village with nothing but dirty looks thrown his way, no damage done. He has left the bloodiest bar brawls with nothing more on him than insults shouted in his face. This is how he has to pay for these mistakes. This is how destiny makes him pay for these mistakes. Now, he has been caught and put in a cage like a wild animal. And just like a wild animal, he will be slaughtered soon._

_He can already feel the pain they want him to feel burning in his fingers, in his hand. He tries to move his hands to ease it, but something holds him in place. Without looking, he can tell he is probably in shackles. Not that he can blame these soldiers, he would put shackles on himself, too._

_He wants to scream in pain, writhe in agony. The soldiers watch him, amused by his display of pain, and he knows that they would smile at him if he starts to make any noise. So, he bites his tongue hard enough he can taste blood in his mouth, holds eye contact with the soldier, and endures the pain he knows he deserves._

Geralt wants to look away, he tries to force his eyes onto the doorway, onto the stone floor, staring ahead into the flames, but is always drawn back to the saw cutting through Eskel's finger. Blood is oozing onto the table slowly, thanks to the cold preventing a steady blood flow to the extremities. But just because they are not getting a sight of an absolute splatter scene, doesn't mean that it is an easier sight. Maybe it would be easier with more blood, the red fluid able to cover up the details of the wound that are now glaringly obvious.

A quick glance towards his younger brother tells him that Lambert is just as mesmerised by the amputation, eyes fixating on the hand while all colour has drained from the witcher's face. When Lambert notices the White Wolf staring, he shoots him what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile. It doesn't work that way. In the light of the fire as Lambert tilts his head, Geralt swears there is a green tinge to his cheeks and the cold sweat on his forehead is glistening.

"You good?"

With a dry chuckle, Lambert nods and motions towards their unconscious brother with his chin. "Should worry more about our big guy."

Geralt wants to respond, but before he can find the right words that wouldn't send Lambert running but make perfectly clear that he isn't falling for this bullshit, Vesemir interjects: "Done."

Two sets of eyes dart over to the hand where Vesemir has finished up stitching the wounds closed, wiping the excess blood away. "Can you two clean this up while I put these away?" he asks, gesturing towards the saw and scalpels laying next to him.

"No problem," Lambert responds quickly, moving to walk around the table. He manages to walk three steps before he suddenly slumps over, hand scrambling on his side to reach for the table but not finding a solid grip. Geralt rushes over, almost running a grumbling Vesemir over, and gets an arm around Lambert's waist before the youngest can fall. "I got you."

"God damnit, just a stumble. Get your hands off me, pretty boy," Lambert curses, pushing the older away. If it were not for decades of practice with him, Geralt would have thought that Lambert is speaking the truth. He knows better. He can hear the quick and uneven heartbeat, can hear the shallow breaths, recognises the symptoms from when humans talk to him. And he also knows that if he utters a single word about his assumption, Lambert will disappear. So instead, he allows himself to be pushed back, walking to the other side to dress the wounds.

Lambert goes to help him, but Geralt gently steers him back to the bench. "I can bandage a hand just fine. Stay out of my hair."

With a grunt, the youngest sits down, head immediately coming to rest on his crossed arms as he slumps over next to Eskel's thigh. Keeping his mouth pressed into a carefully thin line, Geralt ignores him, spreading a balm over the blisters on Eskel's hand before setting it back down gently.

"I'm going to the kitchen. You need anything?"

"A drink."

Geralt nods, patting Lambert on the shoulder as he passes, walking the few steps over to small cabinet holding parts of their supplies for cooking. Important supplies like an armful of vegetables and vodka. Glancing back over at the table, Geralt has a strong suspicion on what Lambert will need at the moment. He pours a generous mug, can see it's called for, before he prepares a quick and simple dinner for the three coherent witchers in the keep.

"You stupid, ugly fuck-face think you can do whatever you want. Walking up here like a zombie. Almost made me discover your fucking body – and that would be an even uglier sight. Wanted to make me throw up when I see you, huh? Well, almost got me there."

As expected, the older witcher has the audacity not to react at all at the quiet outburst, fingers limp in Lambert's hand.

"You know, you are always on me for causing too much trouble, and then you go ahead and pull a stunt like this. Fucking shitshow."

He shoots his older brother an exasperated look that is once more ignored, and huffs in annoyance. "Not even fucking listening, you bonehead. Fucking rude. I thought manners were so important."

The fight suddenly drains out of him again, he squeezes his brother's hand tightly and looks at his face more closely. "When you wake up, I will put paint cans on your door, and flood your bedroom, until you realise how fucking stupid it is not to listen to me. And you know what, Geralt will fucking help me."

Geralt is listening from the kitchen, knife in his hand almost forgotten as he chops vegetables. Of course, he knows that the prickly attitude is more show than anything else, but to be witness to this is something else. He wants to go back out, let Lambert know that Eskel will recover – even if it's with a few pieces missing. But he can't. He doesn't know how to say any of this without scaring the youngest witcher off, and most importantly, he doesn't know it's true.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this far. I apologise beforehand for irregular updates, but I am sure everybody with an ongoing exam phase here will understand.  
> Anyway, I would love to hear what you think – let me know.
> 
> And to anybody reading this with an upcoming exam or papers due: Best of luck to you!


End file.
